


Needs

by cassandraoftroy



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Community: avengerkink, Consensual Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandraoftroy/pseuds/cassandraoftroy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone needs something. It's her job to fulfill those needs.</p><p>Written for a prompt on the LJ community Avengerkink:</p><p>"Natasha is a very expensive but talented russian call-girl, able to do what you want if you pay for it.<br/>I would like to see a night with each one of the men (Tony, Bruce, Clint, Steve, Thor and Loki), each of them having different desire of course: like the one wanting to be dominated or dominating ; or the one cheating on her wife just to have fun, or the one just enjoying to watch or being watched...<br/>different personalty means different sex</p><p>+bonus points if the one enjoying to watch is Mr.Loki and the one being watched is Mr.Thor"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

> This is an all-human, no-powers AU, but I've tried to keep the characters' backstories as close to canon as possible, so their canon personalities would shine through.

1\. Steve

The tentative knock on her hotel room door was not unusual; many of her customers were uneasy at first about visiting a call girl. But when she opened the door to reveal the man standing before it, she very nearly asked him if he had the wrong room. Nothing about his sensible, button-down plaid shirt, neatly-pressed khakis, military-issue haircut, and wide blue eyes suggested a man planning to pay for sex. Only the card in his hand, bearing her name and room number in neat blue-inked letters, told her that he was in the right place.

"Are you, um, Miss Romanov?" he asked, fidgeting with the card.

She smiled, reaching out to pluck it neatly from his fingers. "Yes. And you must be Steve?" At his nod, she gently grasped his wrist and led him inside, letting the door swing shut behind them.

"I, um, I'm sorry about this," he muttered, coming to a stop in the middle of the carpet halfway to the bed. "I mean, when the Colonel told me about you, it seemed like... but... I don't want to ask you to do anything you don't want..."

_Oh._ A more genuine smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She stepped closer to him and covered his big hands, still helplessly fidgeting in the absence of the card, with her small one. His stumbling stream of words stilled. "It's all right," she told him. "I know what you're thinking, but no. Lots of women in this business are forced, but not me. I choose my customers, and my work. It's okay." He seemed soothed by her reassurance, and the set of his solid, broad shoulders relaxed a little. "Now, why don't you come and sit down, and tell me what you're looking for tonight."

He let her lead him to the edge of the bed, and she gave him a gentle push to get him to sit down before pulling up a well-padded ottoman and sitting down across from him. He sat with his knees apart and his elbows braced on them, hands dangling loosely from his wrists. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts enough to speak. "...I'm not really sure what I want, exactly," he admitted. "I just got back from three back-to-back tours in Afghanistan. It's bad over there, at least where I was. The tension, the civilian deaths, the paranoia – not knowing how to tell enemies from innocent people. I... I lost my best friend to an IED. I don't really have anybody else, family, or... or anything." He stared at the carpet. "I know a lot of guys have a worse time adjusting to being back home. They have flashbacks, or can't drop out of combat mode, or... I just have a hard time believing, sometimes, that I made it out of there alive. I don't... I don't know..." He sighed. "The Colonel gave me your name, said it might do me some good, but I don't know what he thought..." Finally, he brought his head up to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't really know what I should say."

Natasha scooted the ottoman closer, letting her knees bump his, and catching up his hands. "It's all right. You can stop apologizing," she teased gently. "I think I know why he sent you here."

"You do?" he asked, but before he could get any farther, she leaned in close and brushed her lips against his.

In the trade, it was often referred to as "the girlfriend treatment" – kissing and other signs of physical affection, anything above and beyond the usual manifestations of lust that went along with various types of sexual congress, were not a standard component of the evening's entertainment. Most customers weren't looking for that sort of thing from their encounter, and many working girls found it too intimate for what was ultimately a business transaction. Natasha didn't offer it for every client, but every now and then she'd get one that she was willing to go the extra mile for.

She slid from the ottoman onto his lap, deepening the kiss. It wasn't long before they'd fallen back onto the neatly-made bed, shedding clothes as they went. Natasha made sure that, whatever inconvenient garment one or the other of them was attempting to wriggle out of, she never completely broke physical contact with Steve; when he shrugged out of his shirt, her hands were on his chest, and when she slid out of the dress he'd unzipped for her, her legs were twined with his.

Steve stretched out on his left side, and she lay down facing him, her head pillowed on his bicep. They had sex that way, with her hooking a leg over his hip to allow him access to her, and with him folding his free arm around her, keeping her cuddled close against his chest the whole time. It wasn't the easiest position, but it was intimate. When he came, he didn't take his eyes off her face.

Then the dam broke. She spent the next hour and a half cradling Steve in her arms as he shuddered and sobbed, occasionally stammering out a half-coherent sentence about explosions, bodies, darkness, or how there was no one left. She hushed him gently, stroking his hair, and softly crooned an old lullaby that he would have been too far gone to understand the words to, even if it hadn't been in Russian. That last finally helped him drift into an exhausted sleep.

He seemed a little better when he woke up. His blue eyes were a shade less haunted as he gathered his clothes, and he thanked her sincerely and without embarrassment as they completed the financial portion of their transaction. She kissed his cheek before he walked out her door, his stride a little more natural than before.


	2. Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for (consensual/negotiated) rough sex/sexual violence.

2\. Bruce

Natasha had long since learned not to base her expectations about clients on the first impressions they made; inevitably, they would manage to defy her conclusions. Thus, despite the fact that the man standing in front of her, wringing his hands nervously, looked to be the very definition of "mild-mannered," she was entirely unsurprised by the first question he asked her.

"Do you – rather, are you willing to do – rough sex?"

"Yes, but my rate goes up," she told him. "How rough do you want?"

He gave her an apologetic smile. "You should pick a safeword."

She was beginning to get curious about this unassuming professor. "Red," she told him. "Or two sharp taps with my hand." She slapped the back of a nearby chair twice with the palm of her hand to demonstrate.

He nodded his acceptance of the signal. "What are your hard limits?"

"Wear a condom, don't break the skin, no fecal matter," she replied promptly. While she didn't get this sort of request very often, it helped to have a ready answer; it made negotiations go more quickly and made sure the client got their money's worth.

"Okay." He was holding himself a little more easily now, and his hands had stilled. "I understand the reasoning that, because I'm paying for this, you should just go along with whatever happens, but if you need to use your safeword, use it. This is going to get... intense."

Natasha studied him for a moment. His slowly-relaxing posture spoke to his familiarity with this conversation. The shadow of a smile dancing at the edges of his mouth showed her his eagerness, his anticipation, and... something else. "I will," she promised.

"Good. Tell me when you're ready to begin."

She was a professional; she didn't show any of the obvious signs, like taking a deep breath or squaring her shoulders. She simply took a moment to nudge her mind into the proper track. "I'm ready."

He backhanded her across the face. She saw it coming, telegraphed by the motion of his shoulders, and turned her head with the blow, though it still stung. He had remembered her admonition against drawing blood, and had struck her high on the cheek, avoiding her mouth, where the impact against her teeth might have split her lip. She snapped her head around, not wanting to miss the signals that would tell her what came next.

She was expecting verbal degradation. Bruce wouldn't have been the first man to pay for the privilege of calling her a whore. But there were no words – only guttural growls that rumbled up from deep in his chest. He tore open his own shirt, heedless of the buttons that bounced away to hide beneath the sofa or television stand, and advanced on her. She let him drive her, retreating step by step until she found the edge of the bed with the backs of her thighs. That was when he lunged.

The force of his leap carried them both well into the middle of the bed, her head landing on the pillows only a few inches away from smacking into the headboard. He knelt over her on all fours, with one hand curled around her throat. She could still draw breath, but the pressure of his rough fingers on her windpipe felt bruising. When she stared up into his face, there was wildness in his eyes that frightened her a little; she reminded herself silently of the safeword he had insisted she choose.

His other hand reached down to where he knelt between her legs and thrust itself under the skirt of her dress. He clawed for the waistband of her panties, yanking them sharply down when he found it. Natasha was almost surprised when he pulled the condom from his pocket before ripping open the fly of his pants. He tore open the wrapper with his teeth, which surprised her not at all.

The sex was fast, harsh, and loud. She could hear the mattress springs creaking and groaning beneath them, threatening to give out any moment. He slammed into her again and again, sweat darkening the hair on his bared chest. She was already getting sore, and she spared a moment's thought to be grateful for her usual habit of lubing up before meeting a client; this would have been much harder without that minimal preparation.

He threw his head back and _roared_ when he came, his hips convulsing against her as he spent his orgasm into the latex sheath between them. Then he almost seemed to... deflate a little, his posture contracting back in on himself as the feral gleam faded from his eyes.

He slipped out and pulled away from her, disposing of the condom in the wastebasket next to the bed, and held out a hand to her. She only hesitated a moment before allowing him to help her up. "Ms. Romanov," he began, "I wanted to, well... thank you, for that." Once she was on her feet, he dropped her hand, bringing his own hands together in front of him. He didn't fidget, though, the way he had when he'd first walked in. "I hope I wasn't too – that you're all right. Are you? All right, I mean."

She adjusted the fall of her skirt, smoothing it over her legs, and smiled up at him. "Of course. Thank you for asking, though. And you?"

His gaze dropped to the floor with an embarrassed smile. "Yes, it was... helpful. Thank you. Would it be all right if I called you again sometime?"

The simple courtesy of the question turned her smile a little more genuine. "Certainly; I think I can find room in my schedule for you."


	3. Tony Stark

3\. Tony Stark

"Have you ever had the sudden, staggering realization of how profoundly bizarre your life has become?"

These were the first words her client spoke to her upon walking through her hotel room door. Coupled with the fact that a single look at his face had told her that no, the name he'd given _hadn't_ been an obvious pseudonym, this really was the _actual_ Tony Stark from all the business and technology magazine covers, the question left her momentarily speechless.

"Occasionally," she managed to respond.

He walked past her into the room, dropping into one of the overstuffed armchairs near the television in the suite without even glancing at the bed. He tossed the narrow valise he carried onto the coffee table, mostly obscuring the copy of _Fortune_ with his own picture looking up from below the title. "Happens to me a lot," he observed with a casualness that was entirely too hearty to be sincere. "Take tonight, for example. If word gets out that Tony Stark paid a visit to a high-class call girl, the tabloids get a couple of scandalous headlines, but nobody else really takes any notice, and life goes on. But if there were so much as rumors that Tony Stark were seeing a psychiatric professional? Stark Industries stock would do the fastest impression of a lead balloon you ever saw." He made a nose-dive gesture with one hand to illustrate the point, then held out both arms in an exaggerated shrug. "So here I am."

Natasha studied him for a moment. "Because you can't take the risk of going to a therapist?"

"You got it," he agreed. "Of course, that means I'm about to become one of the most pathetic stereotypes in the history of the World's Oldest Profession: the John that picks up a working girl and then spends the entire time talking about his problems."

"You realize I don't have any actual mental health training," she reminded him.

He waved a hand at her. "Sure, of course. I don't expect to actually solve anything with this. But you can sit here and make sympathetic noises, right?"

"If that's what you want."

She mustn't have been able to quash the traces of skepticism from her tone – or more likely, Stark simply guessed that they were there. "You're wondering how this can do me any good? What satisfaction I can get out of sympathy from someone that I'm paying to pretend to care about my issues?"

"That's as good a way to put it as any," she agreed.

He shrugged again, but this time it was real uncertainty rather than a theatrical gesture. "I don't know; maybe in the long term, it doesn't really help. But hearing the words makes me feel a little better. And when you come right down to it, what's the difference between that and what I'd be getting out of a real therapist, who I'd still be paying?" He sighed. "It isn't as though most of the positive attention in my life doesn't come from people I pay to be around me, anyway." His eyes drifted away from her as he kept talking, and Natasha had the impression that his words were meant as much for himself as for her. "Put a mechanical problem in front of me, doesn't matter what it is, I'll find a way to solve it. But people?" He shook his head. "Money's really all I've got there. And there's a saying I picked up from my Engineering adviser: 'When all you've got is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.'"

She studied him for a moment. The boneless slump of his posture in the chair was belied by the tight set of his jaw, and the shadows in his dark eyes. She crossed the carpet toward him, sitting demurely in the chair on the opposite side of the coffee table. "All right, then," she said with a small smile, "let's talk."

He snapped out of his fugue so quickly that Natasha was momentarily unsure that she'd seen it at all. "Great," he replied, slapping his palms against his knees as he sat forward, "just one thing first." He reached for the valise, slipped a small sheaf of papers from it, and handed them to her.

She glanced down at the papers in surprise as she took them. "What's this?"

"A standard non-disclosure agreement. I've got a lot going on up here," he gestured vaguely at his temple, "that I'd rather not have show up in anybody's tell-all book deal. Go ahead and read it, if you want; I don't ask anyone to sign something without reading it first."

And since she wasn't fool enough to do that, she started reading. Most of it seemed fairly straight-forward, but one clause caught her eye. "What's this about telling anyone who asks about our meeting that we had sex, and you were good?"

"That doesn't apply if you're subpoenaed or anything," Stark offered, a little defensively. "It's just for if the media finds out I came to see you, or something." When that explanation did nothing to soften the sharply skeptical look Natasha was giving him, he continued. "Look, you don't have to rave about my prowess, or say you gave the money back or anything. I just have a reputation to maintain, is all."

With an eloquent roll of her eyes, she signed the form, and went to hand it back to Stark. He recoiled a little. "I, uh, don't like being handed things. Just put it on the table." He glanced up at her face. "Oh, come on," he protested her expression, "like you haven't had customers with weirder hang-ups?"

Natasha smirked. "I'm not at liberty to say."

He grinned at her, and stuffed the form into his valise. "Make yourself comfortable, Miss Romanov; we're going to be here for a while." He waited while she slipped off her high heels and tucked her feet up beneath her on the chair, then settled more comfortably into his own seat. "So, Chapter One: Dear Old Dad..."

If Natasha had been surprised to find herself spending the evening pretending to care about some billionaire playboy's problems, no one could have been more surprised than she was when, by the end of the night, she wasn't pretending anymore.


	4. Clint

4\. Clint

He was a regular client of hers, so he already knew what was expected of him. He would arrive at the hotel before she did, fetch ice for her pitcher of water, and leave his clothes in a neatly-folded pile on the dresser. When she walked through the door a good twenty minutes later, she found him standing at parade-rest, wearing only his black boxer-briefs, his combat boots, and the blindfold she had left for him.

His spine was rigid and his muscles tight when she entered the room, though whether he'd held that tense pose the whole time, or stiffened in response to the click of the door handle, she could only speculate. She closed and locked the door behind her before striding across the room toward him; she stepped carefully, allowing the thick plush of the carpet to swallow the sound of her high-heeled boots.

Natasha watched him tip his head ever so slightly to one side, straining to catch any sound she made as she moved through the room. The blindfold drove him crazy, she knew; his eyes were too much a part of who he was and how he interacted with the world for him to be comfortable with having his vision taken away.

She had learned that about him early in their first session together. So much of her job was noticing subtle details about her clients and tailoring her approach to fit, that there was no way she could have missed the tattoo on his right bicep. The Marine Corps seal was picked out in clear black lines on his flesh, with the words "US Marine Scout Sniper" inscribed above the eagle's head. He was no longer on active duty, she had discovered after another three sessions. On that evening, the t-shirt sitting atop the bureau had the letters "NYPD SWAT" printed across the chest.

Common wisdom held that you could tell what sort of kink a man was into based on his career choices: major power players liked to be tied up, whipped, and humiliated behind closed doors, while the human doormats who served them were aggressive and dominant in the bedroom. Reality was rarely so simple, but Natasha had often found that her clients' work tended to give rise to certain needs for which they sought her. Clint was no exception.

She held her breath as she approached him, the soft carpet keeping her footsteps utterly silent. His first clue that she was nearby was her hand cupping his cheek, turning his face toward her. He managed to keep from flinching at the unexpected touch; only the slight jump of muscles under her fingertips told Natasha she'd startled him.

"You've done well, pet," she purred into his ear. "Everything is just as it should be. I'm very pleased with you."

His tongue darted out to moisten his lips before he spoke. "Thank you, Mistress."

She set her bag down on an end table and opened it. "Chin up," she told him, and immediately he raised his head, waiting. The supple leather molded to the muscular contours of his neck as she secured the collar, positioning the O-ring over his Adam’s-apple.

With a single finger hooked through the ring, she led him to the bed. His steps were sure and trusting, despite the blindfold; she stopped him just before his shin would have struck the foot-board. "On the bed," she ordered, and he bent down, reaching out until his hands found the sheets, and crawled onto the mattress. "Over." He rolled onto his back, finding the edges of the bed with his hands in order to position himself in the middle.

Another toy came out of her bag. "Hands above your head." His fingers brushed the headboard, and he snaked down a little on the bed to leave a bit of space free around his hands. She wrapped a length of red silk ribbon once around his crossed wrists – not enough to restrict his movement in itself, but enough to _suggest_ restraint. "You understand that you're not to move your hands, don't you, pet?"

"Yes, Mistress."

She smoothed down his hair, and trailed a fingertip along his jawline; he leaned into her touch. "There's a good boy," she murmured.

Then she began to play. It was a game they both knew well by now, but he never tired of it. She began with the ice, wanting to take advantage of the resource before it melted. He yelped and twitched when the first ice cube found his nipple, but didn't attempt to writhe away. Soon she brought heat into play, going back and forth at random so Clint could never predict whether it would be freezing water or hot candle wax that next pooled on his naked flesh.

The room service tray she'd had sent up for his aftercare waited by the door; a perfectly innocent butter knife, left for a few minutes in the ice bucket, felt much sharper than it really was as she dragged it lightly across his throat, or up the flesh of his inner thigh. He trembled a little under the cold steel blade, but never once did the red ribbon move.

A powder brush, meant for applying makeup, could feel delightfully sensual or horribly ticklish against bare skin, depending on the pressure used. Natasha varied her strokes mercilessly, startling high-pitched giggles out of him in the midst of low moans of pleasure. His hands clenched into fists, blunt nails clawing at the headboard, but still he obeyed.

When it was over, she dimmed the lights and came to sit beside him on the bed. She unwound the ribbon and slowly lifted the blindfold, dropping a light kiss on his forehead. "You did very well, pet," she told him, smiling down at his exhausted, wide-eyed face. "I'm proud of you."

When Natasha got home that evening, she changed into an old tank top and sweatpants, pulled a takeout carton of leftover fried rice out of the fridge, and curled up on the couch to watch the eleven o'clock news. Most of that night's program focused on a raid on an arms trafficking ring that had taken place early that morning, which had taken "a dramatic turn" when a member of the arms dealer's crew was revealed to be an undercover FBI agent and was taken hostage.

The standoff lasted for two and a half hours, with the criminals growing increasingly agitated as time passed and their demands were not met. When the ringleader threatened to detonate their inventory of plastique explosive unless provided with a getaway vehicle, the danger to the surrounding low-income housing units was determined to be great enough that the waiting assault team was given the order to take him out.

The NYPD shooter apparently hadn't been able to get a clear line on the leader, who was using the FBI agent as a human shield. The kill shot had gone through the agent's left shoulder before taking out the man holding the detonator. The other members of the ring had been rounded up without further casualties. The hostage, whose name the newscaster gave as Agent Philip Coulson, was still in surgery as of the time of the broadcast; his condition was critical.

 _Not every man who spends his life taking orders wants to give them in the bedroom,_ Natasha reflected as she switched off the television. _Sometimes he just needs to hear that he's doing the right thing when he obeys._


End file.
